


Big World

by Plausible_Deniability



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 05:23:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17277878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plausible_Deniability/pseuds/Plausible_Deniability
Summary: Phryne's planned departure from Melbourne ends more quickly than anyone imagined. A short fic for January 2019 prompt challenge "Phryne's Journey".





	Big World

**Author's Note:**

> New year, new challenges. Couldn't resist the Melbourne prompt ;-) Location photos here at the [challenge page.](https://missfisherchallenges.tumblr.com/post/181608876443/phrynes-journey-melbourne-australia)

The Argus contained this headline on the morning of September 5, 1929: 

>   
>  **“Henry George Fisher, Baron of Richmond, Injured in Plane Crash”.**  
>  (Page 5, below the fold, Metro news.)  
> 

Anyone reading past the headline to the first block of grey text below would have learned that the plane in question was piloted by his daughter, the Honourable Phryne Fisher, recently of St. Kilda, Melbourne, Victoria, who emerged unscathed as the plane came to an unfortunate end in the sodden turf of the Royal Botanical Garden’s Hopetoun Lawn, near the western edge of the Ornamental Lake. A reader would learn further that the Baron had suffered a compound leg fracture and was transported to hospital where he was resting comfortably. 

The unnamed reporter did not record Miss Fisher’s thoughts on the topic. 

An attentive and active news reader, on the other hand, a person who _cared_ to read between the lines — perhaps calling upon her knowledge of the topography of the area surrounding the gardens, or her personal recollection of Miss Fisher's character — would have correctly surmised that she expertly — heroically, even, — guided her aircraft to the safest possible landing. Engines hopelessly stalled, Miss Fisher controlled the glide of the Gypsy Moth, skirting the Yarra River from the northeast, avoiding the mid-morning bustle of cars and pedestrians on Alexandra Road, and using only sheer force of will, urged the craft just a little bit further over the lake itself, harming no innocent bystanders. 

Yes, the Argus reporter failed to record a great many things about Miss Fisher, but then again, some of those things were private. 

* * *

“Just there, Inspector,” the uniformed constable directed. “Inside the guest house.” 

The William Tell guest house, a Victorian confection as ornamental as the lake itself, sat nestled against the lake's south bank — its dark, spare interior in pointed contrast to the hubbub of fire fighters and policemen now swarming on the Hopetoun Lawn, here and there dodging the scandalized citizens of central Melbourne, who hadn’t seen a spectacle quite as remarkable since the Flinders Street tram crash of ’27. 

Jack entered the vestibule from the front path, knocking lightly on the central door frame. 

“Phryne,” he called gently, making out her reclining form as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. She was alone. Shaken, to be sure, but unharmed. 

Phryne looked up sheepishly at first, smoothing the folds of her skirt with her gloved hands. But as she caught Jack's eye, she couldn’t hide her delight in his presence. 

“I was planning to come after you,” he smiled. “No need for such a dramatic overture.” 

“I’ve always been impatient, Jack,” she teased. “You know that.” 

Phryne stood up from the wooden bench and beckoned him to her. He closed the distance eagerly. They stood impossibly close, arms about each other, but resisting a full embrace in favor of holding each other's gaze. 

“And what of the big world out there,” he asked after a long moment. 

Phryne frowned, breaking contact and walking the short distance towards the room’s one window. Brilliant diamonds of light played across her face, golden hues of afternoon sunlight picking up hints of green and blue from the lake and its surroundings. 

“Father's not fit to fly in his present state,” she said. “I’ll book another ship’s passage, once he’s healed adequately. Likely sooner than my Gypsy Moth.” 

Phryne looked across the lake — the flora on its shores reflecting the width and breadth of the world outside of Melbourne — towering palms from the Dutch Indies, birds of paradise imported from Africa, brilliant pink water lilies native to Southeast Asia. Transporting her father would have been a colossal chore, but the destinations along the route, well, many of those would have been sublime. 

Jack knew in an instant — felt her emotions as surely as he felt his own. That was love, he'd come to understand. Perhaps its truest form. 

“You could purchase another plane,” he offered, his voice a warm caress as his hands came to rest on her shoulders. “This need not be a long setback.” 

Phryne turned to face him. 

“Would you still come after me,” she asked, her voice steady, her face open and vulnerable. 

“How could I not,” he said simply. 

She took his hand, squeezing tight. “Will you drive me home now, Jack? I seem to be without transportation.” 

More words would come later — words of maps and destinations, airfields and vistas, plans and timelines. 

Jack stood by the window, holding back as she gathered her belongings from the wooden bench, draping her flying scarf around her neck in a wide loop, the gifted swallow pin still firmly in place. 

Phryne stepped from the darkness into the light. 


End file.
